What’s your crazy — part deux.

Why, yes, you’re seeing double. I apparently managed to turn the comments off below and I cannot frigging figure out how to turn them back on and now I am CRANKY again. Which is not good, but maybe this will work. The $50 gift certificate is still up for grabs… let’s see if this works!

Okay, this may be my shortest blog entry in history. [I was going to blog a very long tirade about BP, but I am having such a great writing evening after having had a cruddy writing morning and I am so far behind, that I don’t want to jinx the good writing with the crankypants ranting.]

I was trying to think (this afternoon) of ways that men express anger or do something in anger which is obviously, you know, furious, and maybe even a little dangerous, but which doesn’t make you (the reader) think “Oh, this person is crazy,” or “abusive.” There’s a fine line there.

Now, I’ve written a lot of male characters, and there was a very specific script that went out early that was told entirely from the male protagonist’s POV and everyone who got that script thought that the writer (moi, total newbie) was a male writer. (I’m assuming they weren’t paying attention to how my name was spelled. Or my agent had a little ‘splainin’ to do.) That script was about an ex Navy SEAL who was dishonorably discharged and whose life had spiraled out of control, until the point where he was framed for a terrorist act, and the only person who believed him was the woman JAG officer who’d had him court martialed, and wanted to help him, because she knew he’d been framed–for both the past and the present event. That guy? Really ticked off most of the script, but for some reason, in this book, I was off my game. Trevor (in the Bobbie Faye books) has a tremendous amount of deep seated rage, really, but we’re in Trevor’s point-of-view and it works, I think, because you get his perspective and you see his rage. In both cases? The guys had an outlet–bad guys to punch or shoot, things to do. This book? I have put Jack Thibodaux in an excruciating situation, where he’s discovered a betrayal, he knows that he’s lost ten years with someone he loved, and part of it is his own damned fault. And there’s more bad news happening, and he needed to do something, and not stand there, stoically.

Aaannnnnnd I was drawing a blank. Complete blank, as if I’ve never written a male character before, or lived with males, or met them. Really, it was sad. (It was so sad, people should send me brownies, to cheer me up. Yes. That sad.) So anyway, I sloshed about, whining, moaning, muttering, griping, complaining, and then did the one tried and true method to Fix Things, Oh Writer Friends [TM].

I wrote to a bunch of guys and said, “Um, so, when you get mad, what do you do?” Clearly, I need to do this more often. There were great answers. Although, now? I have to say that all these years, I have assumed that all the dents in the many trash cans that I have seen were caused by inept trash handlers. I now officially owe all trash handlers an apology for impugning their integrity. I had no idea that the trash can was the universal punching bag for Annoyed Guys, Anonymous. At any rate, they jump started my creativity again, and I figured out the specific way in which Jack would show his anger, and now the scene has opened up, and the angels have sung. Which means, I need to get back to the scene. (And no, there were no trash cans harmed in the making of this blog. Or the scene.)

So I want to open up the blog today to the commenters–and I want to know what have you observed someone doing in anger? Can be funny or not. Can be you or someone else. Unusual is good, but not necessary. And all of the commenters are eligible for a $50 gift certificate from either Amazon, B&N, Borders or Target. Whatever bakes your cake. 😉

97 comments on “What’s your crazy — part deux.”

I think us Cajuns just have really fiery tempers! I know I certainly do.

When I was working at Waldens, I was unloading a bunch of boxes in receiving when one particularly heavy one got stuck hung up on another box. It wasn’t a great day and I was kind of pissed about other things so the fact that I couldn’t move it and finish the job was just one more thing bothering me. So I decided to let loose some frustration and kick the box. I can’t explain my logic — expend some frustrated energy by kicking box you can’t physically move — but somehow it seemed like it might work (not in moving the box, just in venting some anger). So I did. I reared back and kicked it like it was a freaking soccer ball. And jammed my toe.

Two days later I still couldn’t tie my shoe and my toe was swollen and purple. I had to explain to every sympathetic person who saw me that I had done it to myself and didn’t deserve any pity. My manager jokingly asked if I wanted to file a workman’s comp claim.

well my fella,,was chaing a flat tire,, he was mad, pretty drunk, so the lugs was way to tight, (put on by some machine) and he got mad couldnt loosing them, and so he slung the tire iron on trunk, or so he thought, and took out chunk of back window of car

Cranky men, huh? Well, I am familiar with trashcan kicking and wall/door punching, pouting (I know, I know!), escaping into physical or alone activities (like running, golf and man-cave stuff), and use of very colorful language.

Toni, I’m a native of South Louisiana, and while I understand the aversion to jinx your current writing with a crankypants column, I am more than ready to rant about the BP situation. Maybe your next column?

Meanwhile, I started up an FB page for the Krewe of Dead Pelicans (so named after a protest parade in New Orleans.) I am really hoping it grows in numbers as a reminder to the various government agencies and oil companies that we aren’t going to get bored with this and move on–that their profits and their offices are in jeopardy in the future. Here’s the link to that, if anyone wants to join:

Hi Toni,
Anger for soldiers is a serious issue, both downrange and here at home, and one that I understand intimately. I donâ€™t know that spending most of my adult life surrounded by men has impacted my way of dealing with anger differently than had I been a normal civilian but my anger is definitely external. When I came home, though, and got quite possibly the worst haircut of my entire life, I was almost purple with rage. It was something so stupid and trivial to get upset over and yet, I nearly melted down. Over the years as Iâ€™ve matured and internalized the lesson that as a leader, if I melt down, my soldiers will melt down, Iâ€™ve learned to reign it in and express it more creatively, but anger is definitely something that challenges me.
A lot of the guys downrange, espcially earlier in the war, had to find ways of dealing with their anger: anger of the death of a battle buddy, at their inability to fix problems back home, at the crappy food in the chow hall or just because the shower (if they were lucky enough to have one) was cold and they hadnâ€™t bathed in two weeks. Our boys have a lot of funny ways of dealing with anger downrange and some of them have translated into YouTube hits (the remakes of the Kei$ha Blah Blah Blah and the Lady Gaga Telephone videos are instant classics).
But too often, our boys (and Iâ€™m limiting my comment to the guys as it fits the context of your post) deal with anger negatively. They lash out and when the anger become too much, rational decisions are no longer made. It has translated into Haditha (an action that while tragic and horrible, I will not condone but also refuse to condemn, by the way) and other tragic events that paint our soldiers in the worst possible light.
In my mind, anger is one of those things that unless you have felt all the emotions leading up to it, especially in a combat zone, itâ€™s impossible to understand what makes people snap and do horrible things during war. And while it should never be condoned or ignored, maybe it should at least be understood.
I think your topic is incredibly interesting and digs into one of the baser emotions of the human condition. Thanks for a thought provoking subject!
Jess

Jessica, this is exceptionally helpful with my current WIP (as you might have guessed from my Twitter DMs!) — so thank you! You rock. I am trying to portray that sense of absolute frustration that he has at the “down” moments, when he sees a simple solution, but because he’s home and can’t just order the people around him to do what he wants, it’s ten times worse. I so need to pick your brain, hon!

I’ve observed someone angry. It was Toni on email during the frustration of not being able to post comments on this blog today. I could hear the F-bomb detonate clear over in Florida. Heh heh.

But I joke about a serious subject. Angry men scare me. Period. I don’t write them often because I avoid them, so I go for a quiet mad. But I love the floodgates of creativity have opened for you…and the comment section. xo

Er, yeah. Um. Sorry about that. After almost deleting the danged thing once last night, I was so proud to have fixed it. ARRRRGGGGHHH.

But yeah, Rocki, I know what you mean. I kept skittering away from showing the kind of anger Jack would have because it scares me, too, and frankly, I know there’s a real fine line there for him as well as in real life. It’s figuring out how to be honest about him as a man without sugar coating it and yet, without hyperbole and making it seem either cartoonish or somehow okay that’s the real challenge. But I think I finally got it. Er, maybe.

My brother had anger management issues, personally I think he still does. LOL But anyway, as a young kid the therapist suggested a punching bag, one of those Bozo the Clown, punch it down and it bounces back up. As far as I could see, he just learned to hit harder and better, but hey, I’m not the therapist.

A few years ago, I was walking down a small street in NYC, it wasn’t too crowded in terms of pedestrians but it was bustling with cars, trucks making deliveries, etc.

A guy in a silver sportscar, looked brand spankin’ new to me, got stuck behind a double-parked vehicle. He honked his horn several times, stuck his head out the window, made some hand gestures. I can see he was getting fired up. I strode past him. Next thing I know, I hear a loud scratchy-thump sound, I look back and see that the guy tried to manuever around the double parked car by driving up on the sidewalk to only run his own car into a metal sign post! Everyone turned to stare at him and I guess he either got flustered, embarrassed or even more angry because he sverved his car to get off the sidewalk and hit the signpost AGAIN! LOL. So because of his hothead actions (and impatience) he ended up with some pretty visible damage to his new wheels & a streetful of NYers gawking at him. I’m pretty sure he was livid. Hopefully, at himself.

Scorpio, that is hysterical! Sad, but hysterical! I would have loved to see how he explained that one to his insurance company. I don’t think they cover “Jackass temper tantrums” still, but I could be wrong. 😉

My family is pretty loud and passionate. Anger has never been a quiet thing, and it’s usually just yelling, although I’ve been known to smash things. When I was little, we had a giant tree stump in the yard that we’d go and hammer nails into when we were pissed off. Sometimes we’d just pound on the stump itself until we felt better. It was the family venting stump.

My predilection for smashing things ended when, in trying to get my mother to take my anger at my sister seriously, I threw a glass at the wall for attention. Not only did it NOT break, it dented the sheetrock. Took all of the steam out of my sails, and I had to patch and repaint the wall.

Oh, Sierra, that’s funny! (I mean, not that you had to fix it, but you know, kinda. 😉 )

I have, once or twice, been known to throw things. ::::whistles::::: I have a seriously good aim (all those years playing softball and baseball) and my sons learned that if they mess with me long enough to get me to the point of complete in-articulation, they’d better be able to move fast or duck.

(Hey, at this point, they are 27 and 23 and when they turn “messing with mom” into a sport, they can fend for themselves.)

And I once threw the complete works of Shakespeare at my younger brother when he was being a pain. He’d already learned to duck quickly if I was near a paperback book, but he didn’t think I’d actually throw a hardcover. Thank goodness I underestimated the heft of it. It fell short, but he never teased me again while I was reading…which was often.

And you’re right. Your sons can totally fend for themselves. At their age, they should know better by now. 😉

I think nobody is going to top this one. Yeah, OBSERVING something crazy is one thing, but LIVING something crazy is quite another.

Long story short, I basically ticked off someone completely unintentionally. Then that person proceeded to beat the everliving snot out of me. I can even remember EXACTLY where his first punch landed. How crazy is that?!

And I did learn a thing or two from that. Luckily I moved away from there shortly thereafter (no fault of MINE, mind you).

–Aand that mystery story thing I was working on is now going to be a short story in a collection I am working on for an English class. I bring it up because it actually has something to do with the story I just told, although the way I write it, it turns out entirely differently than it did in real life.

Oh, BJ, that’s *horrible*!! I am so sorry you experienced that. (That blows my mind, how those things can escalate so freaking fast.)

Kudos to you, though, for finding a way to use it and turn it around.

In my current WIP, I am killing off a “stand in” representative of someone who is, let’s just say this delicately… evil… and I am enjoying the killing off part. Probably a little too much, but hey, it’s better than setting her on fire, so brownie points to me. 😉

Oh, and I read an article for one of my psychology classes that was talking about managing anger. There’s increasing evidence that by venting your anger in a violent/loud manner, you are creating a pattern and making it easier to turn to violence or volume every time you’re angry, which is not a really great thing.

Sierra, that’s such a good point, really. For years, I read things where “rage therapy” was highly touted–where people were encouraged to hit pillows or get nerf bats and whale away on something, and it always sort of made me wonder… if that’s the only way they know how to deal, what are they going to do on the day they’re furious and there’s no pillow or nerf bat nearby? It’s definitely something that needs to be done in moderation.

Being of the delicate female persuasion I, of course, have no temper. So it was definitely not me who came home from work one night, hit the shower, and while toweling off realized they had forgotten to enter all three of the Labor Day rodeos we planned to compete in. And the entry office was closed, deadline passed.

In case Bobby Faye ever needs to know, it is not that hard to kick a hole in the bathroom door of a single wide trailer with your bare foot. But of course that hole was nowhere near the size and shape of my foot.

KariLynn, I completely believe you are far far too dainty to have kicked that hole. 🙂 Just like I am far far too dainty to have broken the handle off the door that was locked when I needed to get to a really really REALLY important file the other day. Totally wasn’t me who jiggled it with a little too much emphasis. ergh.

haha, and I was beginning to get a complex because I couldn’t comment. ;-P

As for anger issues…I’ve always had a nasty temper…although I learned to control it after I started having children. When I’d get angry I’d punch things…walls, telephone poles…whatever hard surface was nearby that wouldn’t completely shatter my bones. Now…I just curse or fume. My punches don’t quite have the…well…punch…they used to have.
Oh and…Happy Birthday Tomorrow!! =)

I’ve seen Lawyer Guy put his fist through a wall. (The night his father died.) I saw the cops and firefighters I worked with kick and punch all sorts of things–cars, fire hoses, heavy bags in the gym, occasionally each other. I’ve seen women after their husbands/boyfriends used them for the punching bag.

LG gets a “quiet angry.” He broods. He holds grudges. And when he explodes, you better get some earplugs. After a series of fresh and inventive expletives deleted, he either calms down or takes to the computer. He writes brilliant “flame war” letters and posts.

Me? I flash. I get pissed? I scream, yell, rant, and about ten minutes later I’m fine. LG gets particularly pissy that The Only and I fight this way. I scream. She screams. Then life returns to normal.

I think the funniest was a guy at a wedding reception. I have no clue why he was mad but he marched up and down the length of the veranda muttering with wild hand gestures. After about ten minutes, he shouted, “F@^K this $h!+” and kicked at a planter. He put a hole in the side and all this sand poured out. There he was, down on his hands and knees in his tux, trying to stuff all that sand back into the planter, muttering the F bomb over and over.

Silver, I am beginning to think we are the same person, married to the same guy. Except you have lead a much more exciting and helpful life. (grin) OH, GUESS WHAT I GOT IN THE MAIL? My copy of FAERIE FATE!! Yay!! I am looking forward to this one–I love the premise!

Silver, you would have cracked up this evening. We were going out to eat and I decided to dress up. On purpose. (This happens once a decade or so unless it’s for a conference.) Anyway, I put on the dress I’d bought from Macy’s a few weeks ago that I’d loved and was about to walk out the door when I realized that the sales clerk had not taken off that anti-theft device thingie. So phooey, I think, I have to change and take it back (I still have the receipt.) And Carl says, “I can fix that.” I said, “I’ll just change, no big deal.” “No no,” he says, “I can just pry it off.” Thirty minutes later, when that hadn’t worked, and the hammer hadn’t worked (all while I am *still* wearing the dress, mind you–he’s got the skirt cocked up onto the table)… he says, “Oh, I know… I’ll be right back.” And comes back with a baby grinder. And proceeds to grind the thing into pieces. And I’m standing there thinking that I was going to have to explain to the fireman how I caught on fire the night before my birthday. (Because that sucker was throwing off sparks onto my dress.) But.. it worked and I wasn’t terribly singed. (I did draw the line at the hacksaw. I have some sense.)

I’ve seen plenty of well, dumb expressions of anger, including someone punching a car because it wouldn’t start. I had a high school ‘friend’ who would literally throw herself down on the ground, screaming and crying and putting the average two year old to shame in the temper tantrum category.

I think I gave up on that friendship when she pulled that stunt in a restaurant because her boyfriend showed up five minutes later than planned. I just wanted some chicken fingers-not a reenactment of a daytime soap opera.

Of course I’m well known for my own temper tantrums. Doesn’t take much to get the old Irish blood boiling. I have dozens of examples I could list, but one that stands out in my mind happened years ago when my then boyfriend and I went out to a local bar. I played designated driver that night, and he drank until he’d passed the ‘sloppy drunk’ phase and was well entrenched in the ‘obnoxious jerk’ category.

Naturally, the first stop after a night of drinking is the local Taco Bell drive-thru. At least, that’s what you do around these parts. I went through the line, placed Drunk Boyfriend’s order, and we took off through the mall parking lot the restaurant is located in. By the time we reached the exit, we were arguing.

I have absolutely no idea what the fight was about, but he said something that made me see red. I ended up parked in the middle of the road and kicking him out of my car.

I grabbed the bag of Taco Bell Hell in a Flour Tortilla and went to toss it out after the bum. But for some reason, I decided the contents needed some pummeling.

Let’s just say I learned a valuable lesson that night. And that is that burritos were just not meant to be wadded up in your hands. The results are messy and may make you incapable of ever eating a burrito again in your lifetime.

I had nothing to clean my hands with, but when I finally let the jerk back in the car, he was too wasted to register the part where I wiped my burrito goo all over his snazzy white shirt.

You know, intellectually, I know that is so wrong, and emotionally and for feminist reasons… but on a purely primal level, I do, too. Well, from a very safe distance. And only if the other one doesn’t get hurt too badly.

I have five older brothers, so I’ve witnessed a great deal of male rage – particularly in their adolescent years. One of the most bizarre rituals they engaged in involved spraying the metal rails of the drop ceiling in the basement with Lysol and setting it on fire. Let’s hear it for those good, old-fashioned, asbestos ceiling tiles!

My husband is a study in bottled rage. I have never seen him address it toward another human, but woe to the hapless laptop, treehouse, or easy-set pool that attempts to thwart him.

I loved to fence when I was angry. A few times in college I would call up one of my friends and just say that I needed to go a few rounds. Usually it meant that I wasn’t on top of my game strategy wise so we’d just kind of spar for awhile until we’d end up doing ridiculously stupid pirate things that would end with me laughing too hard to be angry anymore. One time it was great because my emotionally abusive ex showed up at a tourney and I overheard him tell someone that I would lose. I was, admittedly, fencing someone who had been in the sport much longer than I had and who normally should have beat me in 30 seconds flat. I won. One of the best victories I’ve ever had. My coach had been working with me to channel my anger into focus (there were some anger issues at that time) and it paid off that day 🙂

My boyfriend mostly just gets really quiet or throws a pillow at a wall. Thankfully it doesn’t happen often.

And your ex was dumb enough to mouth off about a woman standing there, holding a sword? Does he not have a real grasp of the term, “survival instinct?” yeesh. But YAY for you and the focus and the WIN!

And yay for the bf who simply throws a pillow. That’s an expression of rage that would be easy to live with. 😉

Cynthia, I need to do that walking when I’m furious thing. God forbid I take up fencing like Bethany above, though. I just mentioned “fencing” to my husband and he flinched. I suspect any sword I brought home would somehow disappear. Conveniently.

Not so much something someone did as what they said that cracked me up at the time. I don’t even remember what set this woman off but she was cussing up a storm (cussing that would make a sailor blush) then she ended it with “You son of a biscuit eater!” Those of us who were witnesses to this looked at each and started ROFL.

You want unusual? How about throwing a tomato? We were at Arby’s, I ordered a sandwich without tomatoes and received one with.

Apparently, it was the last straw for me. I was pissed off at something else, but took it out on that poor tomato and everyone sitting with me. I took the tomato and slammed it on the table. Made quite a mess, too.

Needless to say, my husband was afraid to talk to me after that and now the joke when I’m mad is “I’m mad enough to throw a tomato!”

This is a great topic, with wonderful stories — thanks for the link, Toni! 🙂

Many years ago — too many, I think, for me to be more specific — I attended a garden party in a small village out on the coast. It was a beautiful day, and spirits were high; then, as afternoon mellowed toward evening and the guests gently drifted toward inebriation, I became aware of unfolding drama. One of the guys, a roguish, narcissistic twenty-something called Grant, had fixed his sights upon the buxom and lovely Pamela; she, unfortunately for him, had her eyes on her date. No matter how witty, charming and attractive Grant tried to be, Pamela ignored him; she only had eyes for her rather bookish companion, who clearly wasn’t leading-man material.

After hours of ostentatious charm, Grant’s mood began to sour. The angrier he became, the more he drank; the more he drank, the angrier he became. As the sky began to grow dark, he sat out on the terrace, glaring balefully through the French windows at the dancing couples in the lounge, doing an excellent job of spoiling the mood. A few of us watched him from a distance, discussing the point at which we would intervene, but, suddenly, he leaped to his feet. I later discovered that he had seen Pamela and her date kiss, but we saw him jump up, bellow in rage, and charge in murderous fury into the lounge.

Without, sadly, opening the French windows first.

He bounced off the plate glass, landed flat on his ass, and burst into tears.

In what I freely admit was not our greatest moment of human compassion, everyone erupted with laughter. It wasn’t that we enjoyed his pain, but the transformation from prowling malevolence and wrath to sobbing, wretched misery was so abrupt and absolute that we couldn’t help ourselves. We helped him to his feet, dusted him off, and bundled him into a car to take him home. Meanwhile, Pamela and her date, blissfully unaware, made out on the dance-floor like teenagers.

And even today, when I think about the self-destructive potential of anger — and drunkenness — I remember that story: the very best you can hope for when you lose your temper is humiliation.

Alastair! Thank you for coming by. If any of you want to read a terrific blog, go visit Alastair here: http://alastairstephens.wordpress.com/ — he’s currently exploring the role of masculinity in our culture, and has a blog up (um, yesterday, I think?) on romantic heroes. Thoughtful, smart, fun.

And Alastair, I love this story. Love that he bounced off the glass, but really, him bursting into tears is just perfect. Poor thing. But funny. 😉

It was my first year teaching. I waited until the kids left the room for PE (at least give me credit for waiting) and then I popped off my sandal and threw it at the wall as hard as I could. It bounced off the closet door (good ol’ rubber soled shoes) and landed with a satisfying almighty thud. Ah that felt good.

It was a relief after a morning of trying to break down place value for a room full of disadvantaged low achieving kids whilst my one Miss Know It All with her spiral perm coiffed in a polka dotted bow (very Nellie Olson, may I add) demanded repeatedly: “I GET it. What can I do now? What can I do now?”

Um, you can close your mouth is what you can do…but I have a strict policy of “make yourself quiet and read,” NEVER EVER “shut up” although it was more tempting than a hot fudge sundae that morning.

So in the privacy of my very own twenty minute break I seized the opportunity and my right sandal.

Lora, not only do I applaud your restraint, I wish you could bottle it and give me a little. (I was once that child, though–so my teachers made me get my big mouth up and go tutor the kids around me, to speed things up. I learned to shut up. Or just plan to help out, unless I had a book.)

I have only one occasion where I took off my shoe. It was a flimsy rubber flip flop and my husband (who is a prankster and will tell me the opposite of something just to get a rise out of me) made the choice of poking at the crazy lady one time too many on one particular overly hormonal day, and I smacked his arm with the flip flop before I had even realized what I had done. We both burst out laughing, though I notice he checks to see which shoes I have on before he starts trying to annoy me.

First, I have to say this — I LOVE YOU, TONI! Now, for my example. Long time ago I lived up the block from my younger brother and his (now ex) wife. At two a.m. I woke up to the sound of banging (loud banging since I was a block away and it woke me from a dead sleep–the windows were up). They were fighting and she was in the mood to do my brother bodily harm (she was inebriated) so he locked her out of the house. She took a baseball bat to the front door. I walked down there, not sure I was really seeing what I was seeing. She was oblivious to my presence and just kept bashing in the door. Finally, when she paused to take a breath, I said, “You know you’re just gonna have to fix that tomorrow, right?” It was her freaking house too! Sure enough, it cost them a hundred bucks to replace the door. Idiot!

Chelsea, I know! who knew?!!? That cracked me up because three guys, in separate emails and unaware of the other guys’ responses, all suggested the trash can route. [Although my husband was completely puzzled by that. I don’t think he’s ever hit or kicked anything. Maybe slammed something down hard, but of the two of us, I’m far more likely to take it out on something physically. But like Silver, above, I’m over it in 10 minutes, and he harbors, so I’m not sure which one is better.)

Toni this is a fascinating subject! I grew up around a male who yelled when he was angry and he was angry a lot. He scared the crap out of me. I married a man with good control of his anger. He has yelled, but I was never scared. Ever.

Usually my husband vents by a combination of humor/sarcasm, working out or going outside and doing physical work. I remember one particular day when I had to have our beloved bunny to sleep. Husband came home and said, “Did you do it?” I said yes, he was silent. An hour later I found him outside ripping the cage apart. I turned and went inside, leaving him to deal with it the way he needed to. By the time the kids came home from school, he was ready to be there for them.

Aw, Jen – that’s sad, but so sweet, too. And from everything you’ve ever said about your husband, I already adore him and haven’t met him. He definitely sounds amazing.

I love that my husband handles his anger in a way that is even keeled. I never feel scared or lost or threatened. Frustrated, sometimes, when he goes all silent and glowery while he’s working it out. But he works it out.

I know that punching walls, etc. when angry is a guy thing, but when you’re a professional athlete, you really need to find a different reaction. The team is paying you millions of dollars to play a sport that involves your hands. So, Mr. Pissed Off Pitcher, don’t punch a wall, break a knuckle and screw up the rest of the season for you and your team.

A couple of days ago, I posted a comment on another blog about an abusive boss that I once worked for. A few days after he was particularly horrible to us, he was then supremely pissed off because we “were acting like women and hadn’t gotten over it”. He called a staff meeting and, while proclaiming that what he’d done was just a stupid macho gesture, he punctuated the yelling by pounding his desk.

Mary Stella, YAY! I would have had a hard time not standing up and applauding. LOL. And 100% behind you on the professional athlete not doing something stupid that hurts his team. That, to me, would be a firing offense.

Fresh out of college, my little sister went to work as an intern for a government agency. Her boss was in a position that required supervising a large number of employees, plus working with the public. In other words, he had a lot of stress.

He kept a box of Peeps in his desk drawer. You know, the electric yellow marshmallow Easter chicks? They were his version of stress relief.

If you walked into his office and saw a decapitated Peep on his desk, impaled with a pencil, it was NOT a good day to ask for a promotion.

My sister has now worked her way up the ladder to a similar position. Last night on the phone, she was telling me about a couple of her more challenging employees.
Her birthday is next week. Anybody know where I can buy a case of Peeps in June?

Kris, that’s the one response that will worry me, though. It makes me feel like violence is imminent. I either go into kick-ass-defensive mode (to protect someone else) or the get-the-hell-outta-here mode (because I don’t want to have to deal with it.)

Growing up there was five kids in my family and we fought all of the time. I’m someone that gets mad pretty easy but I also get over it pretty fast. My older sister would always pick on me when I wouldn’t speak to her when I mad so I went to my bedroom to get away from her and she came in through the closet and jumped on the bed laughing at me so I kicked her off the bed and then threw a radio at her. She was laughing at me the whole time and no she didn’t get hurt.

Sherry, oh, man, siblings! The horror stories I could tell about my brother (who was a drummer from an early age)… but then he would tell horror stories about me (who was a perfect angel alllllll of the time) and then I’d have to kick his butt, only he’s now a 5th degree black belt, so I might need help. yeesh. I told him the only reason he’s a 5th degree is because of me, because he had to learn how to defend himself, but did I get to have the trophy? No. No I did not. Ingrate.

I have a hairtrigger temper but not about people – usually about dumb stuff I do. I’m a yeller. OK, a cusser. and my son is JUST like me. Any time one of us does something really dumb and/or painful (like leaving a sandwich on the counter that the dog then eats, or bashing an elbow into a table) we start screaming cuss words and then the other one joins in and then we end up laughing. It might not be conventional therapy but it works for us!!!

Sophie, I love it! Dueling cuss words! My husband doesn’t cuss (really, I’ve tried hard to be a bad influence on him and the man works in the construction industry, for crying out loud, but he rarely cusses) (I see this as a failure). But every once-in-a-while, when he thinks he’s completely alone and he’s really ticked off at someone, he’ll be in the back of the house giving them a serious talking-to, and finally, he’ll cuss. I’m so proud in those moments. 😉

I tried to comment earlier and couldn’t. When my hubby gets mad he gives me the silent treatment and pouts all day. I take a lot before I get mad but when I do I might throw things or what ever. I will also run my mouth and say things I shouldn’t but then it will all be over after that.

Quilt Lady, I’m so glad you came back and tried again. Sorry for the inconvenience–I broke something this morning. I have no clue what. Sylvia (or God) fixed it.

It takes a lot to make me angry–but I’ll flash, rant, and then I’m done. I ended up ranting at someone today, though, because he screwed up an order and I’ve tried to work with him for WEEKS to fix it, and he kept promising me stuff and not doing it. So today (after this blog), I sent him an email and said, “I am coming to your shop, where I am going to either (a) get my products or (b) get a full refund. And while I stand there, I am going to be explaining, loudly, to all of your other customers about how you do not follow through on any of your promises. Now, I don’t want to have to drive over there, but I will. And if you make me drive over there, I am pretty sure you’re not going to like the outcome.” He called me back in five minutes and fixed the freaking order.

I hate when people don’t give good service. If I hadn’t spent $700 with the guy, I wouldn’t have cared as much, but geez. And it was for no other reason other than he kept forgetting to do the job. For weeks. ARGH.

This actually happened to me. I went out with a friend of a friend (don’t ever do that) because I owed my friend a favor. Seemed nice, harmless enough, but very nervous. Things went downhill quickly. We had little in common and opposites did not attract in this case. After he had several drinks, he was no longer remotely pleasant in any way. I asked him to take me home, and boy did he get mad! When we got to the parking lot, he couldn’t get the car door unlocked, so he kicked the door and left a dent. It was the wrong car. So then he started cursing, hit another car with his fist, and set the alarm off. The police were called, and after he cursed the police and became even more agitated, he was arrested. The owner of the dented car filed a complaint, and I thought the night would never end! That used to be my favorite restaurant, but after that night I never went there again! The guy never called me to say he was sorry, and my friend acted like the whole thing was my fault! After that, we were no longer friends!!!

Two of my brothers were wall-punchers — hurt themselves and Dad made them fix the damage, so I guess it was an educational experience.
I tend to withdraw, that “flight” response, which sometimes is equally destructive.
Funniest angry exchange I ever heard was between two little children, brother and sister, saying “Your Mama” to each other. I wonder what they thought it meant. . .

Jeanette — yeah, that never really makes sense, does it? I get it that they want to expend some energy and that rational thought isn’t high on the agenda, but you know… walls are hard. I’d look for something soft, like a pillow. 😉

I know alot about anger. I grew up with an angry father, mainly due to alcoholism. It was terrifing at times. He would put his fist through walls, destroy chairs and start fights with others. I remember several fights he had mainly with his brothers. The would be talking one second and throwing punches at each other the next. I think fighting is one outlet many men use to vent out their anger.

Oh, Lisa, that is a terrifying way to grow up, though, never knowing when the next punch will be thrown, or what is going to set someone off–someone who’s a parent, who was supposed to be there to make you feel safe. I hope you’ve found a good, safe place and peace now, though. Hugs.

The guys from my hometown always had the habit of punching walls when they were mad. Odd and stupid I know but it seemed to help! My husband always goes to another room from whatever he’s mad at or just cusses at it. He never stays mad long though.

Sadly I havent seen anyone do anything extrememly funny in anger. Mostly I have seen forms of yelling, hitting walls (although my bf in Chicago broke the bathroom door that way, it was hollow he kicked it when mad, guess that was kind of funny), silent fuming, muttering, and just stomping off until they cooled down. There really are a lot of ways to express anger.

When I was younger a bully was bugging my brother so I ran home to tell my dad. Then I went back to my brother’s friends house which was a few houses down from ours to see what was happening. Five minutes later my dad arrived and hauled up the bully by his shirt and banged him a little on the wooden fence (he didn’t hurt him just wanted to get his message through) and started yelling at him in anger not to bug any of us (his eyes were bulging and his face became red, etc.). The bully was really scared I think he might have peed his pants and he promised my dad not to bother us anymore. Then my dad left and then I started laughing and everyone looked at me at first then they all started laughing too!

My granddaughter when she was about 1 1/2 was in the kitchen with her mother getting into trouble so she came stomping out of the kitchen, stopped in front of me, smacked me on the leg, and then just walked off. She will be 5 next month and she’s still a handful.

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Allison Brennan

Allison Brennan is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of nearly three dozen romantic thrillers and mysteries, including the Lucy Kincaid series and the Max Revere series. She lives in Northern California with her husband, five children, and assorted pets.